


Precipice

by anr



Category: due South
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-27
Updated: 2004-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fraser was wearing nothing except for his mountie hat. Which wasn't where it was supposed to be."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipice

Friday night with her hair up and make-up perfect. Her dress is crushed velvet and the man next to her is vomiting into a plastic basin as she sits in chairs at County General, her mood as sour as the contents of this stranger's stomach.

She had opera tickets tonight. Opera tickets and the arm of a Minister and she'd actually been enjoying herself when Turnbull came dashing in half-way through the second act, her cell-phone chirping loudly and earning her the animosity of other patrons... 

With difficulty she returns to the highly suspect report Detective Vecchio is giving her--"so Fraser was wearing nothing except for his mountie hat," a sly look in her direction, "which wasn't where it was supposed to be if you get my drift..."--and immediately wishes she hadn't as her cheeks flush.

Damn him.

  


* * *

  


Fraser emerges eventually, posture stiff and uncomfortable as he follows his doctor to the reception desk. He is clothed all in blue, the top and pants obviously supplied by the hospital staff, and his hat (the only article of his clothing to survive unscathed, apparently) is clutched tightly in his right hand.

Detective Vecchio rises with her, mood obnoxiously cheerful (the seat next to him had been empty. bastard) now that they can see Fraser's going to be ok, that the dislocation was clean. He offers a steady stream of bad jokes as the doctor scribbles a prescription for pain relief and Fraser cannot get discharged quickly enough in her opinion.

"Turnbull's waiting with the car," she snaps as soon as the paperwork is done, "let's go." And Vecchio, suddenly trying to chat up the clerk, for once doesn't argue with her, just hands Fraser his spare key and promises to check on him first thing in the morning.

  


* * *

  


The car ride to Fraser's apartment is quiet and the silence puts her on edge.

Turnbull's driving as she sits in the back with Fraser, Diefenbaker between them. She stares out her window, at the back of the seat in front of her, at Fraser's knees, and considers ordering Turnbull to turn on the radio because if somebody doesn't say something or do something soon she might just go insane. She almost wishes Vecchio _had_ come with them.

Then Diefenbaker whines softly, laying his head in her lap, and (to her surprise) instead of pushing him away, her hand rises to stroke the soft fur behind his ears. The edge recedes.

  


* * *

  


Leaving Turnbull with the car, she follows Fraser and Diefenbaker inside. She's not sure why.

Up the stairs and down the hall. She takes the key from him without a word and lets them inside his apartment, heading straight for the kitchenette. She had made Turnbull stop at a drugstore prior to arriving here and she reads the instructions on Fraser's prescription with an intensity that bothers her as she waits for the kettle to boil.

Does he even want something to drink? Does she? Is that why she's here?

Her thoughts chaotic, she wishes she were cruel enough to read him the riot act here and now. To extract his report on the night's events (something about ventilation ducts and damsels in distress, warehouses and bad guys) when he is out of uniform and no doubt in pain.

Diefenbaker whines again and she turns instinctively, her breath catching in the back of her throat as she sees Fraser. He is beside his bed, shirtless now, and already she can see the bruises forming.

_Taken him to County,_ Vecchio had said, on the phone earlier as several hundred opera-goers had glared at her.

_Fraser's fallen, pushed from a platform, and they've taken him to County,_ Vecchio had said. (And she hadn't even apologised for the ringing cell or said goodbye to her date; just grabbed Turnbull and run.)

Kettle and prescription forgotten she moves across the floor unthinkingly, not stopping until she is at his back. Cautiously her hand rises, fingertips barely grazing the discolouring flesh. He shudders and she circles him slowly, following the curve of his shoulder until she is standing before him.

Hair up, make-up perfect. Her dress is crushed velvet, his chest bare and shoulder bruised.

But his lips are soft against hers; her hands, light on his arms.

And Turnbull, she knows, will wait.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/155028.html>


End file.
